Tuesday, March 31, 2015

BETTER THINGS: THE LIFE AND CHOICES OF JEFFREY CATHERINE JONES (Cabardo, 2012)

Kino Lorber, DVD, Release Date February 24, 2014

Review by Christopher S. Long

“Who is Jeffrey Jones? … I don't
know.”

That's how artist Jeffrey Jones opens
the documentary “Better Things” (2012), so I guess I shouldn't
have been surprised when my informal poll of fellow comic book
aficionados produced a similar response. You mean J.G. Jones? No,
Jeff. Bruce Jones? No, the totally awesome Jeff Jones! Even an
acquaintance who has eidetic recall of the inkers and letterers on
every comic book he's ever read couldn't place the name, which makes
me sad and which makes director Maria Paz Cabardo's movie even more
essential.

The Studio

Jones was one of the four founding
members of The Studio, a 1970s comic book artist collective in New
York City which included industry superstars Bernie Wrightson, Barry
Windsor-Smith and Mike Kaluta. Those three names remain widely
recognized by fans even forty years later, but Jones has since lapsed
into relative obscurity. Where the others worked primarily in comic
books and were closely identified with specific characters (Wrightson
had Swamp Thing, Smith with Conan and others, Kaluta and the Shadow),
Jones's brush graced the covers of many fantasy novels (including a
gorgeous edition of the Solomon Kane collection “Red Shadows”) as
well as fine art illustrations. Jones still produced brilliant art
for the major publishers, including a few of the best “Wonder
Woman” covers ever made, as well as early work in the Warren horror
and war magazines, but never had a sustained run on any single title.
Jones was not temperamentally inclined to produce work on a factory
schedule.

For anyone not familiar with Jones's
work, the documentary showcases numerous examples that testify to an
extraordinary talent, reason enough to watch the movie. The film also
includes several interviews with some of the biggest names in the
field (all big Jones fans as well) including Neil Gaiman, Moebius,
Dave McKean, Bill Sienkiewicz, Mike Mignola, and Rebecca Guay along
with former Studio-mates Wrightson and Kaluta. Writer-editor Louise
Simonson, formerly married to Jones, provides unique personal insight
to augment the enthusiastic professional appreciations.

Jones's "Tarzan and the Dum Dum"

But the centerpiece of the documentary
is the eloquent but sad Jeffrey Jones, interviewed mostly in 2010 and
now both alone and poorly rewarded for a lifetime of high-quality
work. Living in a nondescript one-room apartment, Jones is frequently
in a reflective mood and keen to discuss deeply personal matters.
Jones recalls always (even from the age of five) feeling like a
female trapped in a male body, began cross-dressing as a teenager and
continued to do so in secret while married; the revelation of that
secret at least partially contributed to Jeffrey's divorce from
Louise in the early '70s.

Later in life Jeffrey Jones became
Jeffrey Catherine Jones, beginning hormone replacement therapy in
1998. Jones unfortunately doesn't joke often in the movie, but does
note with some humor her surprise upon realizing that “I was now a
lesbian.” She continued to paint, but also continued a life-long
battle with depression and anxiety. Jones suffered a nervous
breakdown (Jones's term, though one not accepted clinically anymore)
in 2005 and 2006 and was no longer able to create the beautiful
images that had marked a unique talent for the prior four decades,
both a personal loss and a loss to the world. Jones died in 2011 at
the age of 67 of complications from emphysema.

One can't help but mourn for Jones's
death (a eulogy delivered by daughter Julianna is heart-breaking) as
well as the first-hand knowledge of her intense struggles, but
“Better Things: The Life and Choices of Jeffrey Catherine Jones”
also leaves us with much to celebrate: the resilient spirit of
someone who fought every day, the admiration of so many of her peers,
and, above all, the extraordinary legacy Jones left behind. The
gallery of stunning portraits occasionally leave the viewer
breathless as well as wanting even more. It's easy to understand why
the legendary illustrator Frank Frazetta once described Jones as “the
greatest living painter.”

Video:

The movie is presented in its original
1.78:1 aspect ratio. The SD transfer from Alive Mind Cinema and Kino
Lorber is solid if unspectacular. The documentary relies heavily on
talking-head interviews and the transfer is more than adequate to
that task. Perhaps a high-def rendition of some of Jones' art would
reveal more detail, but what we get is just fine.

Audio:

The Dolby Digital Stereo track is free
of any noticeable distortion. Dialogue is clearly mixed. No subtitles
are provided.

Extras:

Nothing at all. It's understandable
that no supplements were available, but a stills gallery of Jones's
art would have been nice.

Final Thoughts:

Comic book and fantasy art fans who
don't know about Jeffrey Catherine Jones now have an opportunity to
fill a major gap in their knowledge. “Better Things” is a moving
testament to the life and work of a major American artist.

“The Thin Blue Line” has been
justly lauded for its stylistic innovations, its giddy flaunting of
the truth claims of direct cinema, and its searing indictment of a
corrupt and incompetent judicial system. Yet the reason I have
watched this film more than any other documentary, the reason I fall
under its spell each and every time, is that is an eloquent ode to
the importance of evidence.

We are each a mass of cognitive biases,
constantly misperceiving reality and then misremembering what we
already misperceived in the first place, twisting it around to suit
our needs. This has led many post-modernists to throw in the towel
and assert that the truth is relative, but as director Errol Morris
has stated time and again, that is utter bullshit. Truth is absolute;
we simply do our best to avoid it, mostly because we don't much care,
partly because we're so bad at identifying it. It may be elusive, it
may be complex, but the truth is there. Whether we can ever get to it
is another issue.

The key to cutting through the biases
and all the other bullshit is evidence, the cold, hard facts that
exist independently of our faulty perceptions. The evidence will set
you free, sometimes from a metaphorical cognitive prison and
sometimes from a literal brick-and-iron prison as in the case of
Randall Dale Adams, cosmic victim of chance and human fallibility.

Randall Dale Adams

Adams was a bit of a drifter who made
the mistake of drifting into Dallas for a few days; on one of those
days (Nov 27, 1976) he ran out of gas on the side of the road. A
teenager named David Harris offered him a ride and the two hung out
for dinner and a drive-in movie before parting ways. Later that night
Dallas police officer Robert Wood was shot and killed during a
routine traffic stop. About a month later, Adams was charged with the
murder, largely based on the testimony of Harris, and then convicted
of the murder, largely based on the testimony of even more liars.

Twelve years later Adams was still in
jail, a death sentence (he was three days from being electrocuted at
one point) having been commuted to life, which is about the time a
former filmmaker turned private investigator named Errol Morris found
out about him. Morris was actually in town to investigate Dr. James
Grigson, a psychiatrist proud of earning the nickname Dr. Death for
the role he played as court expert in many capital punishment cases.
Grigson had happily steered Morris in the direction of some of his
greatest achievements on death row; there Morris met Adams and, after
initially dismissing his protestations of innocence, began to
investigate and found that the evidence didn't even remotely match
the Dallas County legal system's version of events.

Morris, in the midst of a half-decade
hiatus from filmmaking after the extraordinary career opening salvos
of “Gates of Heaven” and “Vernon, Florida”, knew he had not
only an immediate mission to complete but also a subject for his next
movie. He unearthed ample evidence both discrediting the
prosecution's case and pointing the guilty finger at David Harris;
his investigation proved crucial in eventually setting Adams free,
enough on its own to rate “The Thin Blue Line” as one of the most
important films of all-time though it was not the screening of the
film itself that played the pivotal role, rather the evidence Morris
presented to authorities.

The movie that resulted provides
evidence of another kind, of the delusions and fictions that rule our
lives, and that certainly rule our judicial system. Morris's
unblinking camera finds a judge who styles himself an upholder of the
law just like his FBI agent father who was in on the Dillinger
arrest, police investigators who just knew Adams was guilty because
he showed no remorse for his crime, a prosecutor primarily interested
in scoring another kill, and an array of unreliable witnesses with
motives of their own. Chief among the latter group is Emily Miller
who all but confesses her own lies on camera while presenting herself
as a savvy do-gooder who likes to beat the police at their own game;
her casual statement that crimes like this keep happening around her
all the time and that she always gets involved is one of those “I
don't know if I'm supposed to laugh or cry” moments so central to
Morris's work.

"Witness" Emily Miller

Beyond the biases of the individuals
involved, the film portrays a lunatic legal system utterly
disinterested in guilt or innocence, looking only for “justice”
at all costs. An officer has been murdered and someone must pay;
someone, anyone, it's all good. All you have to is find the right
person with the right story (if it needs to be coached out of them,
no worries) and you have your verdict, all nice and official-like.
Perhaps the most unnerving claim made in the film is by Adams's
attorney Edith James who believes the main reason Dallas County
pursued Adams so aggressively is that Harris was too young to get the
death sentence even if found guilty, and where's the fun, I mean
justice, in finding someone guilty without getting to fry him?

At the center of the insanity is
Randall Adams with his piercing eyes, speaking in accusatory terms
but with the distanced resignation of a man who still can't quite
believe any of this is actually happening to him. This is the
“Charlie Manson” and “Adolf Hitler” personality who would
kill and kill again, according to the testimony of Dr. James Grigson
whose degrees affirm his expertise and guarantee that his word will
determine the fate of dozens, all nice and official-like. The real
evidence was right there for everyone to see, of course, but nobody
wanted or needed to so, pfft, it just didn't matter.

Laugh or cry? Morris can process both
reactions simultaneously while embedding the absurdity of such a
process and the people who operate it into the style of his film.
Employing moody lighting and pulsing music from Phillip Glass, Morris
imbues the proceedings with white-knuckle suspense and the feel of a
classical noir with Adams as the haplessly doomed protagonist. The
film also returns again and again to a reenactment of Officer Woods's
murder with details changing each time: the make of the car, the
license plate, the positioning of Woods's partner, the other cars
driving by. It's an extraordinary device that illustrates the
shifting nature of memory and the unreliability of eyewitness
testimony, yet never deviates from a few provable truths: the gun,
the murder, and the milkshake. Yes, the milkshake, look it up.

Let's add another layer of delusion.
Putting the AS(s) in AMPAS, Academy voters decided this critically
praised, groundbreaking film (that freed an innocent man!) did not
even count as a real documentary because of its use of reenactments
and other fictional techniques which meant it wasn't literal truth
like exemplars from the field such as “Nanook of the North” (do I
need a sarcasm font for that?) Laugh or cry? Let's laugh because that
battle has mostly been won by the sane people over the past quarter
century with definitions of the documentary opening up to include,
well, the kinds of films that were always there from the very start.
They just couldn't deny the evidence anymore so, hey, that's
progress.

“The Thin Blue Line” is tense,
riveting, and sincerely and convincingly angry in its depiction of
human greed and stupidity. This is a rage against the machine, and if
it didn't fix the legal system, did I mention that it got an innocent
man set free? That'll do.

Video:

The film is presented in its original
1.78:1 aspect ratio. The high-def transfer brings many of the details
(close-ups of newspaper articles and maps, for example) into sharp
resolution and with a rich color palette that emphasizes the amount
of conscious design that went into the film. Grain is thick and we
can see a lot of detail in some of the darker scenes. No complaints.

Audio:

The DTS-HD Master Audio 2.0 track has
two jobs: present clear dialogue and preserve Philip Glass's
exquisite score. It succeeds at both even if the overall result isn't
particularly dynamic. Optional English subtitles support the English
dialogue: when relevant, the speaker's name is indicated in
parentheses which might help since Morris never identifies anyone by
name with on-screen titles.

Extras:

The primary extra Criterion has
included is a new 41-minute interview with Errol Morris which kicks
off with a discussion of his “crazy thwarted career” and the
events that led up to the investigation that turned into “The Thin
Blue Line.” I can listen to Morris talk documentary and philosophy
all day long so even 41 minutes flew by and left me wanting more.

We also get a interview with
documentarian Joshua Oppenheimer (2014, 14 min.) who speaks of his
great appreciation for the film.

The disc also includes an interview
segment from the Mar 22, 1989 episode of “Today's 'Close Up'”
with Bryant Gumbel as host interviewing Morris, Adams, and Adams's
lawyer Randy Schaffer.

The fold-out insert booklet features an
essay by film professor Charles Musser.

Final Thoughts:

In short, one of the greatest films
ever made. Maybe the greatest documentary. Got an innocent man freed
from jail. And there's your winning shot.

I believe that “Gates of Heaven”,
Errol Morris's 1978 debut documentary about two California pet
cemeteries, is one of the most profound examinations of the human
condition the cinema has ever produced. Not coincidentally I also
believe that we are all crazy, and I mean batshit crazy in an
infinite variety of ways both small and large. I also believe that
this manifest truth is every bit as beautiful and endearing as it is
inherently tragic.

I suspect that the numerous (and
irritating) critics who charge Morris with being “mocking” or
“condescending” to his subjects just aren't in tune with the
director's simultaneously affectionate and despairing embrace of the
absurdity of human existence. We peer out at the world through tiny
slits in our flesh-covered craniums, attempting to sift a massive
information overload through our meager perceptual filters and make
meaning from meaninglessness. To do so, we need to choose what to
ignore (most things) and what to pay attention to (usually the stuff
that makes us feel best). This winnowing process generally drives us
a little loopy and certainly guarantees we'll get just about
everything wrong, but we struggle along anyway and that's what makes
us so fascinating.

And, yes, a bit ridiculous. Witness
Phil Harberts (above), eldest son of the family that runs Bubbling Wells Pet
Memorial Park in Napa, CA. Phil recently left a job as an insurance
salesman to work for the family business, but he still spouts the
boilerplate motivational dogma that suggests his heart remains with
the corporate world. His blather about the importance of positive
thinking and the clearly defined steps to business success becomes
increasingly absurd, hinting at a philosophy of “Bazooka Joe”
sophistication. Yet he goes on an on, certain he has grasped a
fundamental truth and eager to share it with the world.

But wait. “Gates of Heaven” is
supposed to be a documentary about pet cemeteries. Why, then, does
Errol Morris let Phil ramble on about his half-baked business
theories past the point of absurdity? And what about letting sweet
but slightly incoherent Florence Rasmussen rant for several minutes
about her deadbeat son before eventually getting around, ever so
briefly, to the subject of her dear departed dog Skippy?

The great, great Florence Rasmussen

Morris is making fun of them, screech
the naysayers, and perhaps the director's distinct visual style,
intact seemingly from the start in this debut feature, invites such
an accusation. Working with cinematographer Ned Burgess (after the
tyro director fired the first few brave souls to take the job),
Morris fixes the camera firmly on a tripod and frames his subjects
dead center, staring almost directly into the camera as they deliver
uninterrupted monologues sometimes prolonged enough to feel awkward.
The interviewees seem to be mounted on a Petri dish for pitiless
study through a lens that magnifies their every flaw.

But I think the naysayers reveal their
own paucity of empathy. The careful observation of human eccentricity
does not imply judgment, only genuine interest. I cannot imagine
anyone watching Florence Rasmussen complaining about her lazy son or
jumping at the sound of car tires screeching off camera and find her
anything but wonderful, wonderfully and eminently human. Phil's pat
theories about how to succeed in business without really thinking are
pretty foolish, but he is not alone in such delusions. Did you know
that there are people who genuinely believe that everything happens
for a reason? It's true, I swear to God! Phil is struggling to make
meaning of the world and doing it all with the puny intellectual
apparatus of a creature one cosmic calendar second removed from
wondering how to make fire. Of course he's going to look silly trying
to talk about the best way to convince other fire-making monkeys to
hand over their cherished green-colored pieces of paper. At least
he's trying, and with gusto. And Errol Morris wants to chronicle his
heroic journey.

Besides, “Gates of Heaven” is
nothing close to a freak show. There may be an inherent absurdity in
memorializing one's departed pet by means of a plaque emblazoned with
a Hallmark-style epitaph, but the sentiment behind it is deeply
serious. This is something would-be entreprenuer Floyd McClure
understood when he set out to create his own, ultimately doomed pet
cemetery. Sweaty, chain-smoking Floyd oozes sympathy from every pore
when talking about the loss of his own collie in an accident and the
fundamental horror he feels at the world's casual treatment of pet
remains. This sets up a truly extraordinary sequence as the film
intercuts from Floyd's gentle commentary to snippets of an interview
with the owner of a rendering plant. As Floyd fights back tears, the
plant owner, speaking of the dead animals processed at his
facilities, can barely keep himself from laughing at how worked up
some pet owners can get: “You get some real moaners on the phone.”

Floyd thinks it's so obvious that
people would want to memorialize their pets he can't imagine anyone
thinking otherwise. The owner of the rendering plant finds the notion
so ludicrous he feels the need to stop and sell his audience (Morris
on set, the rest of us by proxy) on the fact that people get all
upset about their dead pets: it's true, I swear to God!

That's where “Gates of Heaven” gets
at something deep in the human psyche, illustrating the notion that
each of us is just pacing around in his or her own perceptual cage.
We live in our interior landscapes and there's really no outside
access to them, just the traces we can see and hear, and spoken words
meant to bridge the gap, but usually so inadequate they obfuscate
instead.

It's sad, it's lonely, it's a silly bit
of unintelligent design, and it's really quite beautiful to watch
people doing their best to work through it all because, hey, we're
all forced to run the same race, the one that guarantees everyone
ends up in a tie. Morris isn't mocking, he's showing solidarity in
the struggle. From inside my own cage, I can't imagine there are
people who watch this movie and see all of these characters as being
depicted in a negative light. Floyd, Phil, Florence, the woman who
sings in harmony with her dog – I love them all. And I get the
sense that Errol Morris does too.

“Gates of Heaven” wasn't a
commercial blockbuster, but it announced Morris as an important
emerging talent. Passionate advocacy from critics Roger Ebert (who
later named it as one of his ten favorite films of all-time) and Gene
Siskel helped a great deal as did the support of Morris friend and
sort-of mentor Werner Herzog whose bet with the young but unfocused
director allegedly prompted the film to be made in the first place
(more on that in the Extras section below). His follow-up was thus
widely anticipated.

“Vernon, Florida” (1981) didn't
quite match up to the director's stellar debut but it can hardly be
deemed a sophomore slump. Morris doesn't tap as deep a vein this time
around, but he finds his share of interesting subjects. The project
initially started with Morris's investigation into insurance fraud in
a small town known only as Nub City for the high concentration of
people who “accidentally” blew off an arm and/or a leg and cashed
in with insurance claims. Morris soon learned that these highly
motivated entrepreneurs weren't keen to discuss their wily though not
particularly repeatable scheme, and after getting beaten up and
driven off, he returned to the title town to talk with some of its
four-limbed residents.

Vernon's philosopher king

I'm not going to rehash the mockery
argument again save to say that the usual accusers might have a
better case with “Vernon, Florida” than they did with “Gates.”
The Vernon residents are an odd lot with an awful lot of time to kill
in this tiny panhandle town. There's the local philosopher king who
intently studies a discount jewel he just bought before admitting he
has no idea what he's supposed to be looking at. There's the ardent
hunter with such an intense turkey fixation that he hears gobbles
from behind every bush and remembers the story behind every tiny
turkey beard he has mounted on his trophy wall. There's the preacher
who delivers a sermon on the etymology of the word “therefore”
that sounds even more asinine than any of Phil Harbert's business
advice.

The film courts an inherent risk in its
series of portraits of rural eccentrics that will be mostly viewed by
city folk, but there's little evidence in the movie of any editorial
judgment. Perhaps we do gawk at some of their manners, but people who
devote themselves to their various obsessions are just inherently
funny while doing it. You are too, I promise. Henry Shipes, our
full-time turkey hunter, is genuinely passionate about his calling
and the excitement he expresses while recounting each and every one
of his signature kills really brings him to life even if the viewer
scoffs at the possibility of glory in the gross mismatch between
human with rifle and turkey with giblets. Once again, Morris is
interested in what makes his subjects tick and he finds that the best
way to capture it on film is simply to let them talk and talk and
talk some more. It's a technique he would continue to refine over the
course of one of the most remarkable careers in the past four decades
of American cinema.

Video:

“Gates of Heaven” is presented in
its original 1.33:1 aspect ratio, “Vernon, Florida” in its
original 1.66:1. Both new digital transfers were supervised by Errol
Morris and create din 2K resolution. They really look great. The
thick grainy look makes a few longer shots look a bit lacking in
sharpness, but that's really not a problem at all. This beats the
heck out of any previous release of either film.

Audio:

Both films get a linear PCM mono track
which is perfectly suited to the straightforward job of presenting
crisp, clear dialogue. Not much to say here. Optional English
subtitles support the English audio.

Extras:

Criterion has included both films on
the same disc, each accessible from the main menu. Under each film
title, you can also access the features relevant to each movie.

Morris originally worked as an
assistant to Werner Herzog on his 1977 masterpiece “Stroszek.” As
the story goes, Herzog tired of young Morris complaining about his
inability to secure funding for his own movie and bet him that if he
could make a film then Herzog would eat his shoe. Morris actually
denies remembering the bet or that it played any inspirational role
in his making the film. However Werner Herzog is not a man who
reneges on a bet; as publicity for the festival release of “Gates
of Heaven” Herog indeed ate his shoes (first preparing them with
garlic, Tabasco, and onions) and the historical event was recorded by
director Les Blank in the aptly titled short “Werner Herzog Eats
His Shoe” (1980, 20 min.) It's a great short that Criterion already
included on their release of Blank's “Burden of Dreams” but is
now presented here in high-def. As a companion piece, we also get a
brief excerpt of Herzog promoting “Gates” at the Telluride Film
Festival: “You can make films with your guts alone!”

We also get a new interview (2014, 19
min.) with Errol Morris. It is absolutely fantastic and he responds
to the charges of mockery with an apt summation of what I wrote above
(before watching this interview!) about embracing absurdity and the
basic desperation of life.

“Vernon, Florida” is accompanied
only by another interview (2014, 12 min.) with Morris in which he
talks about the genesis of the project.

The package includes a fold-out insert
booklet with an essay by critic Eric Hynes.

Final Thoughts:

You know what's really crazy? Morris's
first two films, a one-two punch most filmmakers would kill for, did
not launch a successful career. Unable to earn a living in film,
Morris spent several years in the '80s working as a private
investigator. Fortunately that turned out to be the perfect training
ground for the movie that truly would set him up as a full-time
filmmaker, 1988's “The Thin Blue Line” which Criterion has also
released the same week as these two movies. Along with the director's
“A Brief History of Time” this brings Morris up to an impressive
representation in the Criterion Collection. Here's hoping more are on
the way.

Errol Morris's documentaries often take viewers on a tour of the
mental landscapes of his subjects. Gazing directly at his
interviewees (early in his career by putting his head right next to
the camera lens; later via his all-seeing Interrotron), Morris probes
for access to a guarded interior state and then renders it in an
audiovisual medium that can only record exteriors.

For a filmmaker irresistibly attracted to eccentrics, this process
usually involves mapping out the delusions by which his subjects have
made sense of their lives and justified their decisions. In “Mr.
Death” (1999), Fred Leuchter believes his work designing electric
chairs qualifies him as a scientist and investigator capable of
debunking certain Holocaust claims. More recently in “The Unknown
Known” (2013), Donald Rumsfeld rationalizes a history of failed
policies by proudly redefining words to mean whatever he wants or,
more accurately, needs them to mean; history and memory are so much
more pleasantly malleable that way. These surveys of faulty belief
systems are always riveting, but seldom uplifting. People do the
damndest things for the damndest reasons.

“A Brief History of Time” (1991) is therefore a rarity in
Morris's oeuvre, an exploration of an imaginary space that provides
cause to celebrate rather than to recoil in horror or to sigh in
resigned despair. Leuchter was (perhaps) a truth-seeker who didn't
own a bullshit detector while Rumsfeld simply wrote a memo
reclassifying the scent of his shit as honeysuckle, but with Dr.
Stephen Hawking, Morris finally found a kindred spirit, a man of
reason devoted to discovering reality rather than folding it
origami-like into whatever shape he finds most convenient.

Like all theoretical physicists, Hawking opens with a joke: “What
came first? The chicken or the egg.” (See, the joke is that a
super-genius type guy would say something like that.) Morris responds
with a giant image of a blank-eyed chicken backed by a starry night
sky that vanishes somewhere just shy of infinity. Though the
documentary is an adaptation of Hawking's best-selling book on
cosmology, it announces from the start that it is not going to be a
sober science lesson. We will learn about black holes and their event
horizons, entropy, the Big Bang and the Big Crunch, and, of course,
time (both real and imaginary).. but only a brief history of each.
The documentary is less than ninety minutes long and the universe is
somewhat older.

Instead the film concerns itself with the portrait of (I'm sorry,
it simply must be said) a beautiful mind. Against Hawking's initial
protests about the autobiographical slant, the portrait begins in
childhood. Friends describe the Hawking family as both brilliant and
eccentric with young Stephen being the most outgoing and “normal”
of the bunch. Hawking's mother Isobel, however, seems perfectly
normal as she gushes about her baby boy though “gushing” is
perhaps the wrong term for a reserved and dignified British woman
with a modest sense of perspective on genius: “Sometimes (Stephen)
probably talks nonsense, but don't we all?”

Hawking was a brilliant but lazy student who spent more time at
Oxford chugging six-packs than doing homework. Jealous classmates,
now admiring but still jealous adults, testify to his ability to
solve complex problems alone in an hour that they had failed to
answer in teams working for weeks. So he coasted, because he could.
During college, Hawking also attempted to hide growing motor skill
problems from friends and family, but in 1963 at the age of 21 he was
diagnosed with ALS and given less than three years to live. In his
recounting, the impending death sentence finally gave him a reason to
focus.

That focus helped to produce some of the 20th century's great
cosmological breakthroughs, including Hawking's pioneering work on
black holes and what would come to be called Hawking radiation
(roughly, a quantum “loophole” through which some particles can
escape the inescapable gravity of a black hole). And, just as
importantly, Hawking would become the world's most widely-recognized
scientist since Albert Einstein, his iconic status enabling him to
perform a genuine miracle: getting people excited about science. "A
Brief History of Time" camped out on the bestseller list for
years.

Morris is interested in the fame that accompanied Hawking's
disability, but he's more intrigued by the way Hawking has adapted to
it. Though Hawking has greatly outlived his dire prognosis, his body
continued to deteriorate over the years. In 1985, a tracheostomy
ended his ability to speak; by the time of the film he is completely
wheelchair bound and capable of only the most limited voluntary
movement. Hawking can still blink and also controls a hand clicker
that interfaces with a computer program that enables him to speak
through an electronic voice synthesizer (said program was a godsend
at the time, but looks antiquated and downright mundane twenty years
later).

This has produced radical changes in Hawking's working methods.
Unable to write down lengthy equations or access reading material at
will, the undaunted scientist took to thinking primarily in pictorial
terms, visualizing complex ideas as graphic representations that he
could manipulate at his leisure (his leisure being everyone else's
grueling work). Morris does the best he can to depict these images
through charts, graphs, and limited use of computer imagery. But,
oddly enough, the film most vividly conveys Hawking's mental world by
closely observing the physical surface of the man and his machines.

Cinematographer John Bailey, shooting on a tightly-controlled
stage (Hawking's office, like almost every set seen in the movie, was
recreated at Elstree Studios in London), photographs Hawking and his
equipment from a variety of angles: his darting eyes behind thick
glasses, his computer terminal as it sifts through multiple
word-trees, a close-up of a single tire of his wheelchair, and, most
poignantly, Hawking's partial reflection in a tiny screen near his
lap. The juxtaposition of these images of stasis with Hawking's
electronically-rendered and agile explanation of big, big ideas is
sometimes startling and deeply affecting. Not in the sense of
tragedy, for this is not a tragic tale, but for the unfathomable
vastness of the incongruity between the immobile exterior and the
frenetic interior motion in a mind constantly expanding, turning
cosmic pirouettes through both real and imaginary time.

It all makes for one heck of an exciting ride, and brain candy of
the sweetest flavor. It's just a shame Morris took the title too
literally. Where most documentaries feel bloated in the effort to hit
the minimum run time for a theatrical release, “A Brief History of
Time” is far too brief. Leave 'em wanting more, sure, but Dr.
Hawking's just getting started when the credits bring everything to a
halt, the Little Crunch that's a big tease. Of course there's still
time for a sequel.

Video:
First, a note. This dual-format release
includes both a single DVD and a single Blu-ray disc. Anticipating a
documentary/science-fan audience not too concerned with image
quality, Criterion will be releasing “A Brief History of Time” as
a single-DVD-only at a substantial discount ($24.95) full retail to
the dual-format ($39.95 full retail).

The film is presented in its original 1.85:1 aspect ratio. The
1080p transfer is pretty flawless, and the level of detail in the
sets and the close-ups is exceptional. Dr. Hawking's eyes pierce
right through you in high-def.

I think the visual design of this film is greatly underappreciated
as I briefly discussed above. Having said that, the SD transfer in
this dual-format set is also very strong though obviously inferior in
image detail. It's a noticeable difference, but not a deal-breaker,
so if you're really looking to own this Criterion volume but have a
limited budget, you might consider the upcoming DVD-only release.

Audio:
The DTS-HD Master Audio 5.1 surround
track is as crisp and clean as we've come to expect from Criterion.
All dialogue is clearly mixed. I did not have time to mention the
score by frequent Morris collaborator Philip Glass, but it's the
chief reason for the movie to be presented with a lossless surround
track. Morris actually didn't screen the film for Glass, but just
gave him snippets of dialogue to serve as inspiration for various
compositions. Glass's score is a bit more low-key an unobtrusive than
some of his other work for Morris and certainly his work with Godfrey
Reggio, but it's still an integral part of the movie and a pleasure
to hear on this mix. Optional English subtitles support the English
audio.

Extras:
Criterion has only included two
interviews along with the film, but at least they're interesting
ones.
Errol Morris (2013, 34 min.) speaks with affection and humor about
his collaboration with Dr. Hawking, a figure he describes as both
commanding and a little frightening at first. Morris has always been
proud to talk about the considerable invention he employs in his
documentaries (something that used to draw controversy from the old
guard in the field); as mentioned above, he shot almost everything in
a studio with recreated/artificial sets. In addition, (almost?) all
of the dialogue was actually recorded from a voice synthesizer they
had in the studio. Morris claims they were faithful to Hawking's
words except for one small change which Hawking spotted immediately
when the film was screened for him. I admit I could listen to Errol
Morris talk about documentaries all day long so this was an easy sell
for me, but I think it's a great interview.

Cinematographer John Bailey (2013, 12 min.) speaks about his work
on the film, and the challenges presented by recreating spaces in the
studio.

The insert booklet includes a sharp essay by critic David
Sterritt, an excerpt from Hawking's recent book “My Brief History”
and a very short excerpt from “A Brief History of Time.”

Film Value:
Morris. Hawking. Two of my
favorite artists together. It couldn't miss, and it didn't. I'd have
loved an extra in which Hawking and/or other scientists discuss the
changes in the field over the past 20+ years, and what hypotheses
Hawking has had to reject or revise as a result of new data, but I
guess that's what the Internet is for. We do get a couple good
interviews and a sharp high-def transfer of this exciting, sometimes
inspiring documentary about the real “most interesting man in the
world.”

Sunday, March 15, 2015

His greatest gift, of course, was
daughter Elizabeth, a creation so perfect she could hardly be
plausibly cast as a woman of mere mortals born. Later he served his
country with honor, commanding a PT boat in the South Pacific and
participating in the Normandy invasion; he was awarded the Bronze
Star which surely meant a lot more than one of those silly old Oscars
anyway. Upon returning from war, he bravely re-enlisted for a second
perilous tour of duty as president of the Screen Actors Guild. Now
that took guts.

Alas, Montgomery was no saint, and his
involvement in Republican politics led to his testimony as a friendly
witness in front of the House Un-American Activities Committee. Too
bad Samantha Stevens was not yet old enough to steer him away from
this witch hunt; we need her to whip up one of her family's “Reverse
The Spell” spells (“lleps eht esreveR” in case you need the
incantation) to erase this part of daddy's legacy.

At about the same time, Montgomery
decided to share his gifts on the other side of the camera, becoming
one of the very few Hollywood actors to turn director in the sound
era. His debut “Lady in the Lake” (1947) is semi-infamous today
as a noble failure. Montgomery directs and stars as private eye
Phillip Marlowe though he's only glimpsed in reflections as the
camera is situated from his point-of-view in an attempt to simulate
Raymond Chandler's first-person narrative. The nifty gimmick quickly
comes to feels stiff and forced, yet it's hard not to admire the film
for sticking so assiduously to the experiment.

Montgomery's second directorial turn is
somewhat more conventional and substantially less well-known. “Ride
the Pink Horse” (1947), adapted from the Dorothy B. Hughes novel of
the same name, casts Montgomery as Lucky Gagin, a stiff-necked,
meathead thug who arrives in the New Mexico border town of San Pablo.
In the first shot after the credits, the crane-mounted camera glides
along with Gagin as he disembarks his plain Greyhound bus, walks
menacingly into the station, surreptitiously removes a gun from his
briefcase, stashes something secret in a locker, and walks back out.
Over three minutes without a cut and no dialogue until the very end
when Gagin asks for directions to a hotel, an indication that Lucky
Gagin is a man of few and simple words and also that hall-of-fame
cinematographer Russell Metty serves as an indispensable collaborator
on the film.

Gagin's indignant sneer seems to be
directed at life in general but he saves his most withering
condescension for the New Mexicans who commit the crime of being a
little too Mexican. How comes youse dopes don't know how to speak
English? There's someone else Gagin dislikes even more though, namely
one Frank Hugo (Fred Clark), a shady private “businessman” who
messed with one of Gagin's old pals. Even though the town is gearing
up for fiesta tomorrow, Gagin isn't here on holiday. He's out for
revenge. Unfortunately, even though Hugo's a two-but punk he's got
just enough bits in his pocket a wield a little power in this little
town, so our hero is really going to be up against it.

For reasons hinting at a grace seldom
found in film noir settings, Gagin finds himself with a series of
unexpected allies. The avuncular FBI agent Retz (Art Smith) offers
Gagin multiple chances to handle things by more official channels.
Kindly Pancho (Thomas Gomez) opens his humble home and even the
rickety carousel he operates (that's where the titular pink horse is
stabled) to Gagin; laughing, gentle Pancho contains such an endless
supply of bonhomie it can't help but well out of him and wash over
even the gloomiest Gus. Most striking of all is young, skinny Pila
(Wanda Hendrix), a waifish, wide-eyed Madonna who is so much of a
country bumpkin she is floored by the sight of real ice cubes in her
fruit cocktail. She wears through Gagin's rhino-thick skin simply by
always being present and patient no matter the abuse he heaps upon
her.

From L to R: Hugo, Retz, Gagin, Pila

Everything about this big palooka
suggests that he's doomed to failure, but this seemingly boiler-plate
crime tale takes an unexpected turn. The script, co-written by
veterans Ben Hecht and Charles Lederer (with an uncredited draft by
trailblazing producer Joan Harrison), gradually paints additional
layers onto stone-jawed, dull-eyed Gagin. He's just back from the war
and is clearly alienated by the fact that a glorious win over an
indisputable evil doesn't seem to have done much either for his
fortunes or for his homeland. If he didn't expect to be hailed as a
conquering hero, at least he would have hoped that crumbums like Hugo
couldn't continue to get away with all the things they keep getting
away with.

Yet despite all his bitterness and
disillusionment, Gagin ever so slowly begins to change as he turns
his attention from the crumbums to the decent folk he never quite
noticed before. He's too dumb to realize he's being rehabilitated by
the kindness of Pila and Pancho and Retz, but is he just barely smart
enough to take advantage of the opportunities that arise from their
intercession? There's more than a glimmer of hope, but then there are
also the grim expectations of genre bearing down upon his broad
shoulders. Perhaps it's up to Gagin to decide whether he's worth
saving or not.

Video:

The film is presented in its original
1.37:1 aspect ratio. According to the Criterion booklet, this “new
digital transfer was created in 2K resolution on a Lasergraphics film
scanner from a 35 mm nitrate fine-grain and a safety duplicate
negative at Metropolis Post in New York.” The transfer isn't quite
as grainy as you might hope for a (sort of) noir but the
black-and-white contrast is rich and image detail is pretty sharp
throughout. This isn't ab absolutely pristine Criterion high-def
transfer, but it's very good with little obvious damage from the
source material.

Audio:

The linear PCM mono sound track is
crisp and efficient. Most music in the film is diegetic and the sound
design only gets a real workout during the fiesta celebration. In
many scenes the audio is a bit sparer and the clarity of the lossless
audio enhances the mood in those scenes. Optional English subtitles
support the English audio. Spanish dialogue is not subtitled as Gagin
is not supposed to understand it.

Extras:

Criterion probably didn't have a lot of
sources to draw on for supplementary material for a relatively
obscure film like “Ride The Pink Horse” but they've come up with
a few neat extras.

The film is accompanied by a 2014
commentary track by Alain Silver and James Ursini, who literally the
book (or three) on film noir. It's a scholarly track that is still
quite accessible for all listeners and varied enough in subject
matter to maintain interest, ranging from close textual analysis of
scenes to more general discussions of genre and the film's
production. Very strong as we would expect from Silver and Ursini.

The disc also includes an interview
(2014, 20 min.) with Imogen Sara Smith, author of “In Lonely
Places: Film Noir Beyond the City.” Smith argues that noir isn't a
genre so much as a mood and a combination of themes with an emphasis
on character interiority and psychology. Many films noirs take place
in urban settings, but she has spent more time studying noirs in
rural or suburban areas.

Criterion has also included a Radio
Adaptation of the film which aired Dec 8, 1947 on the “Lux Radio
Theatre” (59 min.) and stars Montgomery, Hendrix and Gomez.

The fold-out insert booklet features an
essay by filmmaker Michael Almereyda.

Final Thoughts:

Whether it's a noir or an anti-noir,
Robert Montgomery's second feature film as director is an engrossing
study of an unusual crime protagonist. Gorgeous photography by
Russell Metty is yet another reason to check this one out.

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

The unassuming, middle-aged literature
scholar (played by the unassuming, middle-aged Jean Desailly) kisses
his lovely wife and daughter goodbye to hop a plane to Lisbon to
deliver a lecture on “Balzac and money.” On the plane he steals a
few glimpses at one of the stewardesses, taking particular note of
her changing into high-heel shoes while otherwise obscured by a
curtain.

Later he shares a hotel elevator with
her and takes note of what room she enters. Returning to his room, he
sits down on the bed in the dark and dials her room, inviting her for
a drink. Only after the call is complete does he flick on the desk
lamp; he could not bear to look until the deed was done. The affair
has begun in shame and it doesn't take much to guess it will end just
at a similarly low point.

Not that Pierre sees much even in
better lighting. Sure he settled on a fine target for his affections
in Nicole, but it would be difficult for anyone not to notice the
radiant beauty of actress Françoise
Dorléac (older sister of
Catherine Deneuve). Pierre, however, seems to be oblivious to
virtually everything else about Nicole. Fortunately, the same is not
true of François
Truffaut, writer-director of “The Soft Skin” (1964).

While driving Nicole to one of his
speaking engagements (on Andre Gide this time) in Reims, Pierre notes
that while her wearing blue jeans does not bother him per se, he does
prefer to see her in a nice dress. While Pierre pumps gas, Truffaut
has the camera linger in the car to observe Nicole as she contorts
herself to reach into the back seat, yanks a dress out of her
luggage, then slips away to change. This shot has two effects, the
first of which is to provide indisputable documentary evidence that
Françoise Dorléac
looks fantastic in those blue jeans. The second effect is that we
closely observe the effort Nicole expends to conform to her lover's
ideal; for Pierre, who only notices the aftermath, she has simply
magically transformed into his special princess. Life's so easy for
Pierre!

The trip to Reims is marked by
disappointed and dishonesty from the get go. Pierre forces Nicole to
read deep into a list of best area hotels before settling on one
sufficiently away from prying eyes. Once there, he attends to his
professional duties, albeit with near total contempt for all
attendees, while leaving Nicole to lounge about the hotel. She even
has to buy her own ticket to the lecture and then gets shunted aside
once again when the ticket taker informs her the event is sold out.
Pierre cannot even acknowledge Nicole on the street while he is in
the company of a colleague. Shame, shame, and more shame. Pierre
isn't cruel, it's just that his needs are paramount to Nicole's. Come
to think of it, Pierre is pretty cruel.

A poster advertising Pierre's lecture
is defaced by graffiti. Despite my preceding commentary, I'm not
certain Truffaut intends to do the same thing to his protagonist.
There's a certain affection in the portrayal of a Balzac specialist
so famous he is greeted at the Lisbon airport by a horde of
photographers (later on we learn that people know Pierre “from TV”
which explains a bit.) Pierre is no practiced Lothario either;
whether or not this is his first affair is uncertain, but the film
goes to great lengths to paint a convincing, naturalistic portrait of
a weary traveler who spend many lonely nights on the road and makes
an awkward attempt to connect with someone else.

On the other head, Pierre is a weasel
whose cowardice extends to all facets of his life. He promises a
colleague a ride back to Paris then ditches him; Pierre does not care
about being rude or inconsiderate, only in being directly confronted
while doing so. He lies point blank to his wife (Nelly Benedetti),
who has no intention of being “sophisticated” about the whole
adultery thing, until he can no longer do so and does his best to
avoid facing any consequences. That he cannot avoid said consequences
forever (the film's denouement is quite definitive on this point, but
I won't spoil it here) is a reminder that we are firmly in genre
territory, or at least on a genre bordering on noir and the crime
film. Pierre has, in effect, pulled off a daring heist and the code
dictates he must be punished for it. Much has been made of the fact
that Truffaut shot this film while he was also finishing his landmark
interview book on Alfred Hitchcock (one of a handful of books that
can reasonably be said to have altered film history) but exactly how
Hitchcockian the movie is is a subject open for debate (and which,
indeed, is debated in some of the extras on this Criterion disc.)

“The Soft Skin” was a bit of a
departure for Truffaut who was riding the crest of his personal New
Wave after the remarkable string of “The 400 Blows” (1959),
“Shoot The Pianist” (1960), and “Jules and Jim” (1962). “The
Soft Skin”, with its middle-aged family man protagonist, wasn't
aimed at the youth culture demographic like so many other landmarks
of the movement, though it does feature the crisp, agile
black-and-white photography of Wave-defining cinematographer Raoul
Coutard and an expressive score by stalwart Truffaut collaborator
Georges Delerue.

The decidedly unhip Pierre Lachenay
isn't a romantic rebel, but a failed husband and father who tries to
hide his discretions under cover of darkness or even in plain view as
necessary. Perhaps that explains why the movie was mostly a
commercial and critical flop on its release. “The Soft Skin” has
since gained its share of boosters over the past fifty years. I don't
know if it's one of Truffaut's best (and I think the ending is a
miscalculation, though many disagree), but it is a tautly told,
subtle “caper” film and a convincing portrait of a very flawed
man.

Video:

The film is presented in its original
1.66:1 aspect ratio. According to the Criterion booklet, the film was
scanned “from the 35 mm original camera negative at Digimage in
Paris, where the film was also restored.” The film has a strong
grain structure which enhances its naturalistic feel and the high-def
transfer really shines in the darker scenes (both indoors and
outdoors) where a great deal of detail is visible. Black-and-white
contrast isn't very sharp, but I don't think it's supposed to be.

Audio:

The linear PCM mono track is crisp and
distortion-free, though best described as efficient rather than
dynamic. The sound design in this movie is rather odd. Delereu's
score swells menacingly in scenes where little to nothing happens
(such as a car ride to the airport) but long stretches of the film
are music free with just a few hollow, isolated effects like echoing
footsteps, doors opening, etc. Optional English subtitles support the
French audio.

Extras:

Criterion has offered a modest but
interesting selection of extras on this disc.

The film is accompanied by a commentary
track by the film's co-screenwriter Jean-Louis Richard and Truffaut
scholar Serge Toubiana. It was originally recorded in 2000 and is in
French; you can select option 2 of 2 under subtitles to get English
subs for the commentary. Of course this makes it awfully difficult to
watch the movie as well and I'll admit I only spent a few minutes
with this option.

The best feature on the disc is a new
video essay titled “The Complexity of Influence” by the great
critic Kent Jones. It only runs 12 minutes but Jones packs in a lot
of points. The title of the piece stems from Jones's attempt to
suggest that it's a bit too easy merely to say that Truffaut was
“influenced by Hitchcock” as has often been the case. Rather
“influence” is more a matter of absorption and then
re-processing. He also covers other points including some
biographical information about Truffaut's childhood and subsequent
close relationship with father figure Andre Bazin.

“Monsieur Truffaut Meets Hitchcock”
(1999, 30 min.) is a documentary piece by film historian Robert
Fischer which provides an overview of Truffaut's interaction with
Hitchcock from initially proposing his book idea to Hitchcock to the
publication; it opens with Truffaut speaking at the Oscars in tribute
to Hitchcock.

We also get an 11 minute excerpt from a
Dec 1965 episode of the French TV show “Cinéastes de notre temps”
in which Truffaut discusses the genesis and development of “The
Soft Skin.”

The insert booklet includes a lengthy
essay by critic Molly Haskell.

Final Thoughts:

“The Soft Skin” hasn't exactly been
forgotten but it has often been eclipsed by Truffaut's other
early-to-mid '60s work. As far as I know, it was previously only
released in North America over 15 years ago on a non-descript DVD, so
this high-def deluxe treatment of Criterion is a welcome addition to
the collection.

(I originally wrote this review way back in the ancient time known as 2005. I would change some things today but I decided to leave it as is aside from a minor clean-up. This is posted to accompany Criterion's March 10, 2015 Blu-ray release of Truffaut's "The Soft Skin.")

François Truffaut's second feature
film is also his best.

In "Shoot the Piano Player"
(1960), Charles Aznavour portrays a piano player named Charlie Koller
who used to be a piano player named Eduoard Saroyan. Eduoard Saroyan
played on grand pianos in the great concert halls of Europe; Charlie
Koller plays a beat-up little piano in a second-rate gin joint. Why
did Eduoard Saroyan become Charlie Koller? I'll let you figure it
out, but you won't be surprised to find out that it involves a woman.
Charlie Koller just wants to play his piano and forget about his
past. Unfortunately for Charlie, his brother Chico just won't let
that happen. Chico is in trouble, like always, and, like always, that
means Charlie is in trouble too.

Truffaut fell in love with
David Goodis's pulp pot-boiler "Down There" and chose to
adapt it as the follow-up to his enormously successful debut film,
"The 400 Blows" (1959). Like most of his fellow New Wave
directors, Truffaut loved Hollywood noir and crime films, but he also
despised gangsters which makes for an interesting mix. In "Shoot
the Piano Player," Truffaut begins with all the typical
trappings of the gangster film but uses the film to turn the genre on
its head.

Charlie Koller is at the heart of this subversive
effort. A handsome man and a gifted musician, Charlie should be a
smooth-talking ladies' man. Instead, when he walks home with Léna
(Marie Dubois), a pretty waitress from the bar where he plays,
Charlie interprets every little gesture she makes. Does she like me?
Should I hold her hand? Just as he steels himself to act, she is
gone. He's no Humphrey Bogart. Gangsters Momo (Claude Mansard) and
Ernest (Daniel Boulanger) are out to get both Chico (who ran off with
the money from a robbery they pulled off together) and Charlie, but
they are anything but your standard tough guys. They're just your
garden variety criminals: lazy, a little dim, and also not entirely
evil. In fact, when they kidnap Charlie's little brother Fido
(Richard Kanayan), they wind up making friends with him.

Like
a good Elmore Leonard novel, the plot of "Shoot the Piano
Player" is dynamic and fluid. The characters are not merely
pawns in a pre-determined narrative. Momo and Ernest force Charlie
and Léna into a car. The four of them strike up a conversation to
pass the time during the drive and even share a good laugh together.
Léna jams her foot down on the accelerator, which prompts the police
to pull over the car. As Momo and Ernest deal with the police
officer, Charlie and Léna hop out of the back of the car and wave
good-bye to their "friends." The gangsters shrug; time to
come up with another plan. They have no choice but to react to events
as they develop which sounds an awful lot like real life.

Truffaut's
film is not as formally experimental as Godard's "Breathless"
(1960), but it still exhibits the anarchic spirit of the early New
Wave films. One of the niftiest effects in the film is a triptych
shot of sleazy bartender Plyne (Serge Davri) as he sells out Charlie
to the hoods. Cinematographer Raoul Coutard combines his hand-held
"documentary-style" camera from "Breathless" with
more standard film techniques, creating a hybrid style that really
sizzles in glorious Cinemascope. The gorgeous black-and-white
photography is crucial in establishing the ambiance of the neo-noir
world Truffaut has created, as is the catchy jazz score by frequent
Truffaut collaborator Georges Delerue.

At the heart of the
film is Charles Aznavour's indelible performance. Aznavour was an
accomplished actor/singer/songwriter (though, ironically, not a piano
player) whose career was too diverse for him to ever be identified as
a New Wave icon like Jean-Paul Belmondo. Regardless, his performance
in "Shoot the Piano Player" is as great as any in the early
New Wave films. Aznavour, thirty-six at the time, has a world-weary
face that reflects the tragedy that turned Eduardo Saroyan into
Charlie Koller, but a smile that shows the gentle nature at Charlie's
core. Charlie has had his fill of pain: he doesn't want to hurt
anyone and, in turn, doesn't want to be hurt by anyone else. Aznavour
captures the sensitivity and vulnerability of this complex character
with the apparent ease that only stems from hard work.

If
"Shoot the Piano Player" has any major flaw, it is the
ending which I find to be a contrivance that does an injustice to one
of the film's major characters. This is a minor complaint, however,
in a film which amply demonstrates Truffaut's easy, naturalistic
command of film language. I have never quite warmed to Truffaut the
way I have to Godard and Resnais, but I have no reservations
regarding my fondness for "Shoot the Piano Player," his
breezy, free-form masterpiece which combines the best features of
classic Hollywood with the very best qualities of the most vital and
exciting film movement in cinema history.

Video:

The
film is presented in its original 2.35:1 aspect ratio. "Shoot
the Piano Player" is actually shot in Dyaliscope rather than
Cinemascope, but as far as I can tell there is no meaningful
difference between the two. Perhaps someone will correct me on that.
No DVD or television screen can do justice to this format, but the
transfer gives you a taste of the power of long takes and
compositions actually designed to take advantage of the entire field
of vision. Criterion's high-digital restoration is superb, as
usual.

Audio:

The DVD is presented in
Dolby Digital Mono. Georges Delerue's score sounds great, and all
hisses and pops have been buffed out in the audio restoration.
Optional English subtitles support the French audio.

Extras:

This
two-disc set from Criterion offers a variety of extras.

Disc
One includes the restored transfer of the film along with a
feature-length audio commentary by film scholars Peter Brunette and
Annette Insdorf.

Disc Two includes a bevy of
interviews:

-Two interviews with François Truffaut: The first
is an excerpt from the 1965 French television show "Cinéastes
de notre temps" (9 min.) in which the director answers a
standard set of questions. The second is from a 1982 program called
"Pour changer étoiles et toiles" (12 min.) in which
Truffaut discusses his adaptation of the David Goodis
novel.

-Interviews with Charles Aznavour (24 min.) and Marie
Dubois (10 min.): Both of these were recorded in August 2005
especially for this Criterion release.

-An interview with
Raoul Coutard (14min.): Recorded in Paris in 2003, this is the most
interesting of all the interviews. Coutard is always a fascinating
speaker.

-An interview with Suzanne Schiffman (15 min.):
Recorded in April 1986, this interview with Schiffman, who worked
with Truffaut in many capacities throughout his career, was
originally intended for a separate documentary but went largely
unseen. Criterion acquired the original footage and edited the
interview down to its current form.

Disc Two also includes a
short audio essay (15 min.) about composer Georges Delerue who scored
eleven films for Truffaut and more than 200 in his career. The final
extra is Marie Dubois' Screen Test (3 min.).

While each of the
features here is of some interest, the collection is missing a real
meaty feature which provides analysis or context for the film like
Babette Mangold's documentary on Criterion's "Pickpocket"
or the numerous stellar features on Criterion's re-release of "M."

Final Thoughts:

As the 2002 Sight and
Sound voting shows, "The 400 Blows" and "Jules and
Jim" (1962) are Truffaut's most critically praised films. I beg
to differ. "Shoot the Piano Player" is easily my favorite
Truffaut, but I also recommend both "Day for Night" (1973)
and "The Bride Wore Black" (1968). "Bride" will
be of particular interest to Tarantino fans. Jeanne Moreau plays a
woman known only as "the Bride" who seeks revenge on the
men who killed her husband; she crosses their names off a list after
she dispatches each one. Sound familiar?

Sunday, March 8, 2015

Welcome to DVDBlu Review. Thank you
kindly for your interest. Let me explain what this very new and
rapidly growing site is about so you can decide if you'd like to
stick around.

And now for a message from your author

My name is Christopher S. Long and I've
been writing film reviews for over ten years. I'm a member of the
Online Film Critics Society and I've written for Cineaste magazine,
DVDBeaver, and other print and online publications in the past. You
may have seen my reviews posted at Rotten Tomatoes, or maybe you
haven't. The main site I wrote for this past decade, which I am not
inclined to name at the moment, was abruptly pillaged by Vikings and
burned to the ground recently along with all my work. From its ashes
springs DVDBlu Review.

I have two primary goals at this site:
to restore a decade's worth of my writing to the internet, and to
continue coverage of some of the best new DVD and Blu-ray releases. I
have reviewed nearly 500 Criterion titles as well as many great
releases from Milestone Films, Kino Lorber, Zeitgeist, and other top
labels over the past ten years; I will gradually add these older
reviews to the site while also providing weekly coverage of new
releases and other relevant news. The content will definitely skew to
the so-called “arthouse” rather than blockbusters and I aim to be
selective rather than comprehensive. Every now and then I'll slip in
a new theatrical review as the spirit moves me, but the focus here
will be on those shiny discs we love so much.

Having said that, my primary interest
is in the films themselves, not the technical specs of each disc. I
will discuss the video, audio, and extras for each release, but this
is not going to be the site to talk about bit rates or to wage battle
over the righteousness of a 1.78:1 vs. a 1.85:1 aspect ratio.

Please don't be intimidated by the
flurry of posts in March 2015. That's just me revving the site from 0
to 60, posting a year's worth of reviews before officially launching
this blog. The pace will slow down from that as I focus more on new
coverage but I will be adding older reviews as well as new features
such as director spotlights, “Best Of” lists, and more.

I hope you like what you see. If you
do, tell twenty of your friends. If you don't, just keep it between
you and me.

More Vital Information About The
Author:

My favorite directors are Stanley
Kubrick, Werner Herzog, Robert Bresson, and Jean-Luc Godard. I will
always have a special place in my heart for documentaries and
especially for the films that blur the lines between fiction and
non-fiction. The first time I remember crying at a movie was when
Spock died, and I just cried again when Leonard Nimoy died. Aside
from Spock, Jeanne Dielman is my one true love.

At the very least, director Shirley
Clarke's debut feature “The Connection” (1962) creates an
indelible sense of time and place. A handheld camera explores every
nook and cranny of the vast but rundown New York City loft inhabited
by a dozen or so drug-addicted jazz musicians eagerly awaiting their
next heroin fix: “Is Cowboy back yet?” A chintzy checkerboard
table, a ratty cot and a rusted potbelly stove are nearly all that
break up the floor space otherwise devoted to the piano and drum kit
around which the musicians spontaneously break out in performance
every now and then. Branching off from the main room are a kitchen
partly cordoned off by a curtain and a never-glimpsed bathroom which
serves as the mini-Mecca to which each junkie makes his own
pilgrimage for his desperately needed hit.

In a film shot more or less in real
time over nearly two hours, this constructed set feels like a very
lived-in space on a very specific afternoon, an impressive enough
accomplishment on its own, but Shirley Clarke had far greater
ambitions for her project. Clarke was a founding member of a recent
film cooperative (along with luminaries such as Richard Leacock and
Albert Maysles) that helped to refine some of the principles of early
cinema verité in America,
but she was never comfortable buying into the overblown truth claims
that would emerge about the desirability or even the possibility of
objectivity in documentary filmmaking.

Jack Gelber's play “The Connection”
provided the perfect source for Clarke to adapt into a critique of
said truth claims. Gelber's play was about drug-addicted Greenwich
Village jazz musicians but also featured a (fictional) director and
playwright on stage as well as pre-planned audience interaction to
add multiple levels of reflexivity to the proceedings. It wasn't a
huge leap for Gelber's film script to rejigger the story to frame the
movie as a documentary being shot by a director and a cinematographer
trying to capture the “truth” about junkies.

The film actually kicks off with a
printed statement read by “camera man” J.J. Burden who claims
that documentarian Jim Dunn put the footage in his care and that
Burden edited it “as honestly as I could.” It's soon apparent
that the word “honest” is intended ironically. The film quickly
doubles down on this theme when, after spending a little time
listening to his somewhat histrionic subjects, director Dunn (William
Redfield) jumps in front of the camera to order the addicts to calm
down and act natural because he's “just trying to make an honest
human document” and, gosh darn it, he knows “something about
Eisenstein and Flaherty.” To my taste, the film's weakest point is
the over-stacking of the deck against a director shown to be a
clueless blowhard from the get go. But direct cinema was in its
first blush as the ascendant documentary paradigm in America, and it
appears that Clarke was eager to prick its bubble before it had a
chance to fully inflate.

Cinematographer J.J. seems much more
sensible from his perch behind the camera but even he is pulled in
front of the camera at one point (and lo and behold, it's the great
Roscoe Lee Brown in his first film role!) to emphasize that he's no
objective observer either. One of the African-American musicians also
taunts J.J. about working for a white director, “Is your name gonna
be on this film?” Clarke was juggling quite a few balls with her
deceptively modest debut.

As the day wears on, each of the cast
members holds court for the camera at some point, mostly reminding
Dunn that he has no idea about the reality about their everyday life
is and that pointing a camera at them for a few weeks won't get him
or the audience any closer to it. The stage-intense performances
sometimes play a bit too big in front of a camera, but they establish
the ebb and flow that determines the film's cyclical rhythm. Frantic
harangues yield to drowsy slumping as the players crash while waiting
for Cowboy (Carl Lee) to return to the apartment with their new
supply; fresh-sliced pineapples can only provide enough energy to
bridge the briefest of gaps while they wait. Fortunately they have
enough oomph to break into some fabulous jazz numbers from time to
time with a score composed by the great Freddie Redd; Redd and
several other major jazz performers of the time work in the cast and
jam.

Most of the graphic details of drug use
are staged off-screen behind that omnipresent closed bathroom door,
but after playing coy for a while, Clarke shows one of the men
(Warren Finnerty as Leach) shooting up in exquisite detail. You would
think this would be the central sticking point (no pun intended) for
critics of the film and perhaps it really was, but when “The
Connection” ran into trouble with New York state censors it was
ostensibly over the repeated use of the word “shit” as slang for
heroin. The film's scheduled May 1962 opening was delayed for months
as Clarke and her backers battled the New York Board of Regents. It
eventually played in the D.W. Griffith Theatre without being cleared
for exhibition and the theater was subsequently shut down and the
projectionist arrested.

Eventually the good guys won, but the
protracted legal battle had all but sunk the film's theatrical
chances, though at least the fight guaranteed that “The Connection”
would be a cause célebrè
among the cognoscenti. It helped that the very hip Clarke (born into
a wealthy family and already a respected New York artist) had
powerful “connections” of her own ranging from Allen Ginsberg to
Jonas Mekas. “The Connection” was considered one of the major
American independent films of the '60s, the first of several for
Clarke, but has been largely out of distribution for the past three
decades. Because of that, the significance of Clarke's pioneering
work has since been overshadowed by some of her peers such as John
Cassavetes (who borrowed her film equipment to help make his own
debut feature “Shadows”), which explains why Milestone Films has
stepped up to the plate to remedy that oversight with their epic
Project Shirley.

Project Shirley already yielded the
Blu-ray and DVD releases of the extraordinary “Portrait of Jason”
(1967) and the jazz documentary “Ornette: Made In America” (1985)
late last year. Now this February 2015 release of “The Connection”
continues this grand enterprise which will have at least one more
volume later this year. (Click the Project Shirley label tab at the
bottom of this review to read about the other titles.)

That decaying loft with its little
kitchen and mysterious bathroom and its cheap checkerboard table
almost seems like it's still there today with the same aging junkies
still waiting for Cowboy to help them get through another night. You
can certainly understand why Milestone was motivated to make this
indie landmark widely available to a new audience.

Video:

From Milestone's press release, this
film was “preserved by the UCLA Film & Television Archive with
funding by The Film Foundation. It was restored from the original
35mm acetate picture and soundtrack negatives and a 35mm composite
master positive... In 2012, Milestone contributed the money to create
a new preservation 35mm negative.” The collaboration between
Milestone and UCLA Film & Television Archive has produced a
high-def transfer that is nothing short of astounding in richness and
detail. I freeze-framed the movie several times just to walk up close
to my TV and scan the image. The grain is thick and beautiful and the
image resolution is remarkably sharp; if you want to you can stop
and study the detail along the loft's wall, including the
writing/graffiti in a few spots. This is an absolutely superb
high-def transfer and I cannot imagine anyone has seen the film
looking any better since its initial screening... if even then!

Audio:

The linear PCM 2.0 soundtrack is crisp
and efficient, occasionally sparkling when needed with some of those
marvelous jazz numbers. The dialogue sounds appropriately hollow as
if being delivered in the large space we see on-screen. Optional
English subtitles support the English audio.

Extras:

Milestone leaves few cinematic stones
unturned when curating their releases. “The Connection” is not
nearly as packed as Milestone's other release this week, the
wonderful “In The Land Of The Head Hunters”, but the
supplementary features are both ample and interesting.

The extras start with “The Connection
Home Movie” (6 min.), a 16mm collection of on-set footage mostly
featuring playwright/screenwriter Jack Gelber and his young son as
well as a few shots from the inside of the bathroom that is never
glimpsed in the film.

An interview with jazz composer Freddie
Redd (27 min.) is absolutely riveting even when he's just bragging
about being friends with Charlie Parker because, really, who wouldn't
brag about that? He talks about how he got involved first with
Gelber's play and then with Clarke's film. What a great interview
subject. He deserves his own feature-length documentary.

We also get a shorter conversation with
art director Albert Brenner (2014, 5 min.) which has a minor problem
with low volume, but it's audible if you just turn up your settings a
bit.

The disc also includes a collection of
still photos from on-set and behind-the-scenes (6 min.), including
several pictures of Shirley Clarke at work as well as a short Trailer
(1 min.) and some home footage of actor Carl Lee at the Chelsea Hotel
(4 min.) where Shirley Clarke lived. The final extras are audio
recordings (2 min. each) of two songs produce for the publicity
campaign: “Who Killed Cock Robin?” and “I'm In Love.”

Milestone had originally planned to
include a 1959 radio interview with Shirley Clarke (29 min.) - it's
even listed on the back of the disc – but left it off at the last
minute due to poor sound quality and because it wasn't directly
related to the film. They have, however, made the feature available
on Vimeo. You can find the link to it at the bottom of Milestone's
page for the film if you are interested.

Final Thoughts:

As much as I liked the previous Shirley
Clarke films released by Milestone, I was mildly apprehensive about
“The Connection” due to my general aversion to filmed theater. I
had nothing to worry about. The pseudo-documentary framing device may
be a bit old hat by now but is so deftly used here it still somehow
seems fresh. The high-def transfer is immaculate too. Highly
recommended, of course.